


Wonderwall

by aralias



Series: Wonderwall/Masterplan [1]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for the end of <i>Planet of Fire</i>. The Doctor makes a different decision, but regrets it just as much. It was the easy choice, not the right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderwall

_because maybe..._

The Doctor stops the flow of calorific gas before the Master can invoke the word that binds them together.

“All right,” he says, as the orange flame turns blue and the Master gasps as his burnt skin reforms. “Yes, I’ll let you live this time.”

The Master regains his composure quickly. But, of course - almost certain death must be old hat for him. Annoying certainly, but not enough to break his gait. He stands, pushes strands of hair back into place, brushes volcanic dust from the velvet of his jacket, and smiles.

“My thanks, Doctor. Your compassion is, once again, as predictable as your wardrobe.”

The part of the Doctor’s brain that forgets sometimes that this man is not Koschei considers pointing out that these are new trousers which he found yesterday behind a microwave on the third floor, and that, anyway, the Master is one to talk – how long, exactly, has he been wearing the same jacket? – but it is a fleeting consideration. He already knows what he is going to do.

As the Master steps out of his shrunken laboratory and towards him, the Doctor reaches very obviously for the TCE and holds it out like a threat.

“Oh, come now, Doctor,” the Master says with a amused chuckle. He keeps walking. “Don’t embarrass yourself. Put down the Tissue Compression Eliminator. We both know you don’t have the will to murder me.”

“No,” the Doctor says. The edge of the control desk digs into his back. “Perhaps I don’t, but I have no similar qualms about shrinking you, Master, so I suggest you stop where you are, unless you fancy spending the rest of your life in a bird cage onboard my TARDIS.”

“I’d make a very bad pet,” the Master says, “no, Doctor, I think I have a better idea,” and bounds across the final metre between them, knocking the TCE skittering across the ground and pressing the Doctor back against the control desk in one movement, both wrists expertly caught. “This, Doctor, is what we call a third option. An option you appear to have forgotten, how very clumsy of you, but fortunately I am quite able to work it out for myself. The power that was so briefly yours is mine again.” He laughs and pushes closer. “A small moment of weakness, true, but quite enough, I’m afraid, for a desperate man.”

The Doctor is more than usually aware that the collar of his shirt is open - the Master is staring at his throat as if wondering how best to sink his teeth into the jugular. He feints closer and the Doctor pulls his chin up rapidly, bearing still more of his neck – the coward’s response, as usual, putting him into further danger - swallows and hears an answering chuckle.

“I happen to think mercy isn’t weakness,” he says and is relieved to hear his voice is as steady as if they were not crushed together against a device which could easily destroy the planet.

“Yes. You hold a great many strange ideas,” the Master agrees. “Is that what this is, then? Is it _mercy?_ Or,” he says, looking up slyly, “is it greed? Simple, base greed, oh, Doctor, I do hope so. I promised to give you anything in creation. Are you planning to hold me to it?”

“Ah,” the Doctor says, trying not to fidget under his gaze, “I was wondering whether you would remember that. You have an excellent memory for slights, Master, but it’s often rather fallible when it comes to your own promises.”

The Master laughs. “Some promises are a pleasure to keep. All of creation, Doctor. All of it. Anything you choose. I’ll even let you run away to a cold shower if you insist,” he says as the Doctor closes his eyes, _coward,_ his hearts beating rapidly out of sync, “but that does seem like a criminal waste of a wish.”

“Anything I want,” the Doctor breathes in the darkness behind his eyelids.

“Is yours,” the Master says like a purr. He hooks a finger under one of the white and red braces, runs the captured hand up the Doctor’s chest and pulls slowly. “Oh, my dear Doctor, the things I would give you if you would only ask for them.”

The Doctor leans into him as if drawn by the tug on his braces. _“Leave,”_ he says softly when he can feel the Master’s breath on his face. “Get in your TARDIS and leave.”

“Oh _Doctor_ , you do disappoint me,” the Master chides, but he steps away instantly. “Until next time, then. I trust you will enjoy your shower-”

“No, you don’t understand,” the Doctor says and he opens his eyes, forces himself to smile. “You never do. You never listen.”

“Oh?” The Master raises an eyebrow. “In that case, enlighten me. What don’t I understand?”

“Master, I’m afraid this is it.”

The Master narrows his eyes curiously. “Are you giving in, Doctor?”

“Quite the opposite actually,” the Doctor says briskly. “When I say ‘this is it’, I mean there won’t be a next time.”

The Doctor has always been very good at suppressing his emotions and never more so than in this current regeneration. Adric’s death left him so angry that if his remaining companions hadn’t been there to witness it, he would have landed on Telos and removed every single hateful cyberman from the tapestry of time. The loss of Nyssa and then Tegan, who had been with him so long, made him want to whimper and cry in the dark, but it wasn’t appropriate and he endured.

“I want you to leave me alone,” he says now, light but firm, as if it is a relatively minor matter but one that has been irritating him for some time, as if he is not filled with a mix of anger, loathing - for the other man and for himself – and simple, treacherous lust. “I want you to leave the universe alone. Find some forgotten corner of it and live out the rest of your miserable existence away from innocent people.” He smiles pleasantly. “Will you do that for me, Master?”

The Master rarely hides his feelings, except when disguised and sometimes not even then. Currently, he is torn between anger and despair and the Doctor can see it quite clearly on his face. This apparent vulnerability must be a calculated strength – everything about the Master is calculated now – though the Doctor has never been certain what the Master thinks he achieves with it. Perhaps his emotional honesty is designed to remind the Doctor of Koschei, or it is his way of asserting moral superiority, or perhaps he is simply using it to provoke a response. It does all these things.

It is why the ridiculous disguises are so often convincing. When the Portreeve or Khalid, the sorcerer, looked at him it was without the Master’s intense hunger. When the Master is himself, the Doctor can see just how much his every action affects the Master. In weaker moments, he loves the Master for this.

At other times, in stronger moments, he allows himself to use his knowledge against the Master, though sometimes he thinks it must be the other way round. Loving someone, wanting them in spite of their flaws – numerous, in this case – is a mark of strength and courage; using that person’s best quality to ruin them merely displays a disgusting weakness he should be ashamed of. He _is_ ashamed of it, but not enough to risk the universe or this planet or another single person.

The Master has apparently forgotten about the TCE and the Doctor stoops and picks it up. He tosses it experimentally in the air, watching its spinning progress. It rises and falls three times before the Master growls, “When I said you could have anything, you know that isn’t what I meant, Doctor.”

“Of course, you’re right. Shall I try again?” the Doctor asks amiably. “How about,” he says, throwing the TCE high, “Master, now you mention it,” he catches the device and turns back to the Master, “I’ve always wanted a summer house on Betelguese Five. Is that better? Would you do that for me? Or, perhaps, Master, please give me a star system of my own to rule. Yes, I’m sure that would be a pleasure. Or even: Master, please make love to me until I forget my own name, until I shake and whimper and beg for release, until I forget that you’re violating me with the body of my dead _friend.”_

He stops because his voice has become harsh, and passion, of any kind, is inadvisable when dealing with the Master who craves retaliation.

The Doctor controls himself and asks pleasantly, “Was that more what you had in mind? Did you honestly think that was what I was going to ask after you left me to burn to death less than an hour ago? Please don’t tell me. Just leave.”

“You’ll regret this,” the Master sneers. It is either a threat or a prediction, and the Doctor shakes his head to deny either.

“Do as I ask or I _will_ kill you next time we meet. Do you finally understand?”

“Perfectly, Doctor. Perfectly,” the Master says, suddenly, shockingly cordial. “Thank you for being so inescapably clear at last. I assume you’re keeping hold of the TCE?” He raises his eyebrows and the Doctor nods, though he hasn’t thought about it.

The Master doesn’t argue, merely returns to his TARDIS. At the stone door he pauses and says, “The fourth setting has a tendency to rebound on the user. Do be careful,” then shuts the door behind him. In a moment, the TARDIS dematerialises, the vacuum created by its departure setting the hot air swirling with ash.

The Doctor watches until the Master’s TARDIS has completely disappeared and then, when there is nothing left to watch, turns and walks back to his own.

He regrets it already. This cannot be the right choice. It was the easy choice, the weak choice, the one that eschewed all responsibility for the Master, that hid behind disgust because love was too difficult. He could have insisted the Master travel with him. That would have been challenging, but workable. Under constant surveillance, he could hardly have destroyed too many civilisations. They might even have been occasionally happy. He could have asked for anything and yet he chose _this._

“Doctor?” Peri asks, nervously. “Are you OK?”

It’s possible, the Doctor thinks, that the Master will not obey him. That in ten years, or twenty, or five hundred, he will arrive on a backwater planet and find the local population in thrall to a sinister looking man with a vaguely ridiculous beard. As soon as he thinks this, he remembers the Master’s strange and sudden geniality in the face of rejection and knows that the Master has given up on him. The universe is a little bit safer as a consequence. It must have been right.

Peri is still waiting for an answer. The Doctor looks across at her - painfully earnest, secure in the knowledge that the Master is nothing but a villain - and then back at the TARDIS console.

“Yes, of course,” he says, “I’m all right.”

He goes through two regenerations in quick succession – he must be getting careless in his old age – before Romana calls to tell him that the Master has died. Apparently, he spent the last hundred years of his life on one of the planets orbiting Betelguese. Not doing anything particularly of note, Romana says, or we would have told you. Some light tinkering with various forms of Artificial Intelligence, but nothing that appeared harmful.

His memories will be stored in the Matrix and the Doctor is assured that he can have access to them any time he wants. Romana doesn’t ask whether he’s all right, because she knows him better than that. She does ask if he will come home for a while. There’s not going to be a funeral and no one will attempt to press him into presidential service whilst he’s there, it would just be a visit between old friends. After a brief hesitation – because it would be good to see her again – the Doctor declines.

Instead, he goes to San Francisco at the tail end of the twentieth century on a whim– they’re playing Puccini at the War Memorial Opera House – and walks out into a gun fight he should have seen on the monitors. It’s carelessness, not an attempt at suicide – which, in any case, would be too embarrassing to admit to even if it were true – and when he regains his memories after a difficult regeneration, he resolves that this _will_ be it. It’s been long enough.

He feels better than he has in a long time: happier, effusively affectionate towards the universe again. He even kisses a rather startled Grace Holloway, though she doesn’t seem to mind. This clean slate must be down to regenerating without his memories and the Doctor is grateful for that, as much as he is grateful to be alive at all and to have shoes that fit.

Of course, it doesn’t escape him that, even without his memories to inform the regeneration process, he has a young face again with wide eyes and pale lips; that, without remembering who he was, he found himself an Edwardian-style frock coat in San Francisco, 1999AD. But if he’s learnt anything in 900 years, it’s that the universe has a somewhat ironic sense of humour. It seems appropriate that – with the Master finally gone – he can take up his life where it left off.

He considers returning to Gallifrey, but, apart from the amusement Romana will get from his sudden face-lift, the idea appeals to his new sensibilities just as little as it did to those of his seventh self. So, the Doctor travels, always meaning to go back to Gallifrey later, and then the War starts and he no longer has a choice.

He leaves his companions in places he hopes are, if not actually on their home planets, at least within a reasonable distance of their home planets, and returns to his own. They ship him out almost immediately – someone needs to evacuate Woman Wept before the Daleks get there – and for the next ten years of Gallifreyan time he barely returns to its orbit except for the major battles that cannot be avoided. Even from space he can see the change that has been wrought on the shining world of the seven systems. Whole continents seem, constantly, to be burning, as more and more foundries are built to provide ships and weapons for the War. The Doctor finds it almost impossible to bear.

For those ten years, he avoids landing the TARDIS on its surface entirely. Then, after another horrific skirmish above Trion, the navigational controls fail so badly that the Doctor – who understands almost everything about his ship except why the navicom refuses to sort itself out for more than two weeks at a time – can think of no alternative to hitting the relevant circuits repeatedly with a large hammer and desperately hoping the TARDIS remembers where it came from.

The citadel appears to be almost deserted when he steps out of the police box, the cloister bell ringing loudly behind him. Miraculously, he has materialised in the cavernous hanger bay in what appears to be the right period. The Doctor gives the TARDIS a shaky pat and shouts “hello?” into the silence, one hand still resting protectively on the side of his ship. “Is anyone here?”

When there is no reply he steps away and almost faints as the TARDIS’s mental grip tightens in panic around his mind. The War – fought as it is in both the physical and psychic realms – has had a devastating effect on all forms of telepathic consciousness. Even those TARDISes which were docile and reliable before the War are likely to go to pieces without warning. It is one of the reasons the Time Lords are losing a War they ought to have won long ago. Only those who have built up what was previously deemed a ludicrously sentimental relationship with their ships have any chance of quieting them.

The Doctor returns to his TARDIS and strokes it reassuringly, “Ssh, it’s all right,” gently prizes its hold open. “It’s all right. I’ll be back very soon, I promise.” When he attempts to leave a second time, the grip is weaker. He can wrench himself away.

He walks past rows and rows of decommissioned TARDISes – all of them in prime condition before the War – and eventually spots the technicians’ office between two dead ships frozen in the form of battered star fighters. There’s a light on inside the room and the Doctor shouts, “Excuse me,” and half walks, half runs forward. “I don’t mean to trouble you, but it’s extremely urgent that I get back to Trion and my navigation circuits-”

He stops at the door, because the soul occupant of the office is leaning against what is either a filing cabinet or something disguised as a filing cabinet, and it’s very obvious who he is even though the Doctor has never seen this particular man before.

“Well, well, well,” the Master says, looking faintly amused. “ _Doctor._ What an unexpected pleasure.”

His face is squarer than Tremas’s, not unhandsome and framed by another dark beard. He favours black again, though the velvet jacket has been replaced – at last – by a tight waistcoat and billowing shirt sleeves. The Doctor gapes at him stupidly.

“You’re alive?”

“Indeed I am,” the Master says. “It wasn’t my idea, but nonetheless I apologise for the inconvenience this undoubtedly causes you.”

“No,” the Doctor says, “no, it’s just I thought you were dead. They – Romana, actually,” he looks around hopefully in case his friend is about to appear and clear everything up, “told me you were dead.”

The Master gives a wry chuckle. “And she told me that if I agreed to the council’s absurd plan, she would warn me of your impending arrival so that I could make myself scarce before you got here. It seems our Lady President has been rather economical with the truth recently.”

“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. I hardly knew, myself, whether I would land here or in of the mucus pits of Clom,” the Doctor says. He laughs awkwardly, finishes his inspection of the Romana-free office and looks back at the Master. The Master who is not dead; who is, in fact, alive; who is, apparently, working for the Time Lords.

The man in question raises an eyebrow quizzically, looking for a moment so much like his final legitimate regeneration that the disturbing truth presents itself suddenly to the Doctor. He strides across the room and presses a hand to the Master’s chest where a heart thumps beneath the black silk.

“I see this regeneration has no concept of personal space,” the Master says softly.

“It’s got me into trouble before,” the Doctor agrees, moving his hand to the other side where a second pulse beats in time with the first: always slightly slower than the beat of the Doctor’s own. “Two hearts, a lower body temperature than generally found in humanoid species, and,” he peers at the Master’s throat, “unless I’m much mistaken, a Time Lord’s respiratory bypass system, Master.” He looks up curiously into eyes that are both familiar and unfamiliar. “This is a new set of regenerations. The council brought you back properly to fight in the War.”

“I believe that was their intention,” the Master smirks, lounging back against the filing cabinet or whatever it is. “Apparently, they regard me as the perfect warrior for this sort of war and quite rightly so. They begged me to come back, Doctor. Naturally, I refused.”

The Doctor smiles. “Just to be unreasonable. How very typical of you, Master.”

“You wound me,” the Master says smoothly. “Surely you’ve heard that I’m a changed man. The thought of killing all those poor, defenceless Daleks prevented me accepting the council’s exceptionally generous offer, much as I would have liked to. Then, they told me you were already out on the front lines and I realised even becoming a murderer again for the hated establishment would be worth pointing out what a hypocrite you really are.”

“Now, Master,” the Doctor says sternly, “I really don’t think-” He breaks off as the Master begins to chuckle.

“Oh Doctor, you have such a ludicrously high opinion of yourself. A correspondingly low opinion of me is to be expected, but apparently you think very little of your president as well. Romanadvoratrelundar is not foolish enough to allow me access to anything more harmful than a laser spanner. My part of the War is entirely maintenance based. Everyone else even remotely competent is needed in the field.”

“ _Maintenance_?” the Doctor repeats, not bothering to hide his amusement. “You? _You_ are the technician?” These words remind him of his original purpose and his face falls. “Of course, you are. Come with me. I need your help.” He seizes the Master’s hand – glove-free, pleasantly cool – and pulls him, unprotesting, out of the door, breaking into a jog at the first of the lifeless ships. “My navigation circuits failed,” he explains as they run. “I couldn’t fix them without help, so I came here. My TARDIS is still languishing, alone, in the hanger. She must be going crazy.”

Unlike the rows of dead TARDISes which feel like nothing any more, the Doctor’s TARDIS is letting off waves of distress and grabs wildly for his mind the moment they step into range. The Doctor stumbles, lets go of the Master’s hand and sprints across the final distance separating him from his ship.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, fumbling with the TARDIS key in the lock. “Something came up, but that’s no excuse, I know.”

The cloister bell is still tolling balefully. The Doctor rushes to the console and begins taking everything off isomorphic control. It’s relatively safe, for the moment. Not even the Master would attempt to steal a TARDIS whilst it’s in this condition and it does seem like Romana has him under control here, though how this has been effected is not something the Doctor particularly wants to consider.

“I see you’ve finally dispensed with the white roundels,” the Master says as he steps through the doors into the Gothic shadow of the console room. He peers up at the bronze statues and strokes the smooth wood of Doctor’s reading chair as he passes. “I approve, but surely you find this rather dark and elegant for your tastes.”

“Hmm? Oh, I suppose it is a little unusual, but it felt appropriate,” the Doctor explains absent-mindedly. He finishes reprogramming the computer, flicks a few switches that he’s certain have something to do with the defences, and depresses the general control. “There, you should be able to get to everything without being electrocuted. Or at least, without the TARDIS electrocuting you on purpose. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that she won’t electrocute you by accident, but try not to take it personally.”

“How delightful,” the Master says. He kneels – somewhat gingerly – on the dusty floor and peers under the console. “Oh _my_ ,” he says, twisting and sliding gracefully under the desk. “No wonder nothing works. Have you been adjusting your temporal mainframe with a sledge hammer?”

“Absolutely not. That would be completely ridiculous,” the Doctor says. He walks round the console, squats next to the Master’s legs and grins. “Besides, I find a largish mallet is usually more than sufficient, don’t you?”

Resting a hand on the Master’s hip, he leans in further. “Oh, no, there’s nothing wrong with the Time Modulator,” he points out, when he identifies what it is that the Master is doing. “I’ve had it for years, an original part actually, and in all that time it has never so much as hiccupped… making the Time Modulator almost unique amongst the components of my TARDIS.”

“Did you never think that the incredible length of time you’ve owned it might well be your problem?” the Master retorts. “You’re supposed to replace your modulator every other century, or, at least, give it a complete overhaul like the one I'm currently engaged in. Frankly, it’s a miracle that you ever manage to land anywhere at all.”

“I’m telling you, you’re wrong,” the Doctor says, crawling under the desk to stop him. “If you’re not going to do this properly, then just get out of the way. I’m almost certain the main fuel system must be leaking into-”

“ _Doctor,_ ” the Master interrupts, holding the Doctor’s body away from himself with the hand not poised above the perfectly functioning modulator, “you asked me for my help. Don’t scoff at it now.”

“I assumed you knew what you were doing!” the Doctor protests.

There is a brief scuffle and the Doctor almost manages to wrestle the laser spanner from the Master’s grasp before the Master gives the Time Modulator’s main roundel a firm twist and the cloister bell stops abruptly.

“Ah,” the Doctor says, suddenly very aware that he is lying on the Master. He slides onto the floor before the moment can become more awkward that it already is. “It seems you were right. Thank you.”

“Your confidence in my abilities is appreciated as always,” the Master says dryly. He turns his head to look at the Doctor. “Incidentally, I believe the fuel systems are _also_ leaking into the Directional Matrix which might account for how drastically the modulator failed this time. Would you like me to see if I can stop the leak, or are you planning to object to your own idea merely because I agree with it?”

“No, please, go ahead,” the Doctor says. “I’ll make us some tea while you work.”

He pulls himself out from under the console and hurries off to the closest kitchen. It is almost too good to see the Master again, to see him alive and well, and to bicker pleasantly with him. Worryingly good. Any moment something is going to go terribly wrong – something that will remind him exactly why his fifth regeneration thought it so necessary to send the Master packing once and for all – and he won’t be on his guard.

His hands shake slightly as he pulls tea bags from the cupboards. Earl Grey for himself, Ceylon for the Master – in fact, why does he still have Ceylon anyway? None of his companions have ever expressed any fondness for the dark citrusy tea and the Doctor has never drunk the stuff himself, yet here it is. How embarrassing. Thank Rassilon, no one has ever noticed.

Romana could have said _something_ , he thinks as the tea brews. The Master may well have been dead once, but he has been alive again for almost ten years and in all that time, Romana has never so much as hinted that this is the case. The Doctor decides to have a stern word with her once the War is over. He stirs milk into his own tea – a bad habit that seems to skip every other regeneration – and returns to the console room where the Master is still tinkering under the desk.

The Doctor sets the Master’s tea down by his hip, and sits down next to him. No one else has done any serious maintenance work on the TARDIS for almost a thousand years, but she seems quite happy in the Master’s care.

“It’s Ceylon,” he prompts, when the Master doesn’t stop work to join him.

“Thank you,” the Master says. “I’ve almost finished, I promise. You’ll forgive me for asking, but is it poisoned Ceylon?”

“What?” the Doctor says. “No, of course not. Why would it be?”

“I believe you promised to kill me if we met again.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” the Doctor asks mildly. “You don’t appear to be posing much of a threat to the universe at the moment: sitting quietly on Gallifrey, fixing TARDISes for Romana.”

“Thank you for so thoroughly emasculating me with your summary of the situation,” the Master says wryly.

The Doctor laughs quietly into his tea. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s actually good to see you doing so well, Master. If you don’t mind my saying so, you weren’t particularly adept at genocide. I always found it quite easy to foil your ridiculous plots, assuming you didn't foil them yourself by accident.”

“ _Again,_ thank you.”

Mmm,” the Doctor murmurs happily. “You know, if I didn’t know better I’d say you really were a changed man.”

“But, _of course_ , you do know better,” the Master says. He slides out from under the console and stands without picking up his cup, brushes the dust from his sleeves – a movement so reminiscent of the last time they met that the Doctor’s hearts contract painfully.

“I’m finished,” the Master says. “Your rust bucket should function just as well as she ever did if you leave her to recharge here for two hours. Now, if you’ll excuse me I should be getting back to work. It was lovely see you, Doctor. Please don’t drop by again.”

“I’m sorry?” the Doctor says, getting to his feet in surprise.

“No, Doctor, I don’t think you are,” the Master says. “I don’t think you even _realise_ -” He stops and tries again, on a different tack, with a more reasonable tone. “It transpires that you were right, as you often are. I haven’t changed. I’ve been listening to the reports, so I know I could win this War for either side within a month, but I have kept quiet, I have minded my own business. I believe I could win it for myself, by myself, in under a year. You must realise what a tempting prospect that is, Doctor. With the Time Lords and the Daleks gone the rest of the universe would fall within a decade. The universe would be mine, Doctor, but instead I’m here, fixing TARDISes for Romana. Minding my own business, even though, as you were so quick to point out, I haven’t changed. Do you know why?”

The Doctor sighs and puts his tea cup down on the top of the console. “Because I asked you to leave the universe alone,” he says.

“Because you asked me to leave the universe alone,” the Master repeats mockingly. “Anything and everything in creation spread out before you and you chose something so banal that I almost refused on principal.”

“I expected you to refuse,’ the Doctor says quietly.

 _“Did you?”_ the Master demands with the sudden mad fury of his last incarnation. Unlike that incarnation though, he keeps his distance, which is, somehow, more disquieting. “The truth now, Doctor, if you’d be so kind.”

“It was a possibility,” the Doctor insists, because the truth is not going to help the situation.

The Master glowers at him. “It was never a possibility and you knew that or you would never have asked what you did. You knew however you asked for it, whatever you asked for, I would give you like a benevolent god answering the prayers of his most beloved worshiper.”

“You think of yourself as my _god?”_ the Doctor asks with a stab at mocking incredulity.

“I assumed you’d prefer the euphemism to the truth,” the Master says coldly, “but if you insist - I would have given you whatever you asked for like a husband providing for the man to whom he is _still_ legally married.”

There it is then. The Doctor considers pointing out that, given that the Master has actually died and has been entirely reconstructed from the Matrix with a new set of regenerations, it is quite probable that, under Gallifreyan law, they are finally – after he spent 700 years trawling through the legal system without results – no longer bonded, but it is a fleeting consideration. The bureaucratic nightmare of the courts can wait, assuming either of them still care about the issue when this conversation is over.

The Doctor takes a step towards the Master, then reconsiders and stops, still an arms length away from him. He rests his hand on the console.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “You’re right.” He chooses his words carefully – fishing around his memory for how the phrase had sounded, back when he wore white and red braces. “Shall I try again?”

The Master narrows his eyes. The Doctor raises his eyebrows, and, eventually, the Master nods curtly like a royal acknowledgement.

This time, the Doctor considers all possible alternatives. It was a mistake not to do this on Sarn, but he was so angry. Still it’s too late to worry about that now. He fiddles idly with the TARDIS controls as he thinks and feels the TARDIS’s pleasure at the way she has been renovated flow through him. It’s clear she wants the Master to stay, which makes things harder. The Doctor already knows what he is going to do.

He turns to look at the Master. “Help me to end this War. I’ll speak to Romana and get you a TARDIS of your own. Win the War for Gallifrey if you think you can, _with,_ ” he adds as the Master opens his mouth, “as small a loss of life as possible on both sides.”

The Master gives him a hard look. “You want me to win the War,” he says, “without killing any Daleks.”

“Mmm,” the Doctor says, nodding. “If possible. I will accept minimal casualties, but not senseless slaughter. Think of it as a challenge.”

The Master considers this. “It will take substantially longer,” he says eventually.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Very well. I believe I can promise you nine months,” the Master says. “Get me a TARDIS, give me control of, perhaps, five of our fleets, and I’ll end the War for you in nine months.”

“For Gallifrey,” the Doctor corrects with a smile.

“For you,” the Master repeats. “You can give them the victory if you must, but I refuse to inconvenience myself for people I despise. Is that all?”

The Doctor almost laughs at the absurdity of this remark. It will be a miracle if the Master ends the War that has devastated the universe in nine months, and yet, apparently, he still considers this an embarrassingly prosaic thing to ask for - is, apparently, giving the Doctor the opportunity to think of something better.

“I’m allowed more than one request?” the Doctor asks, just to be sure.

The Master gives him a look of fond exasperation. “I wouldn’t want to be thought a parsimonious god, Doctor. You can have as many requests as you like.”

The Doctor closes the distance between them and kisses him - gently, as they rarely kissed in previous lives. “Thank you, Master,” he says. “Really, you’re not my god, but, now that you mention it, I’ve always wanted a summer house on Betelguese Five.” He smiles, fingers toying with the edge of the Master’s waistcoat, which looks so much better on him than that awful jacket ever did. “Coincidentally, I believe you currently own one, purchased in a tragic attempt to make me feel guilty when I heard you’d died there.”

“And did you?” the Master says, archly.

 _Madam Butterfly_ was playing at the War Memorial. It was only carelessness, but it might not have been. “Oh yes,” the Doctor says.

“Then my summer house is yours,” the Master says and reaches out to stroke the velvet of the Doctor’s sleeve, as if it has finally been officially countenanced. “Though I can’t imagine what you’re going to do with it. Is that all? I admit, I had hoped for less… material requests from someone of your moral persuasion.”

“Ah, I see,” the Doctor says, smiling as the Master’s hand traces up his arm, over his shoulder and lingers at his bare neck. “Well then,” he says softly, turning to kiss the Master’s palm, “ _Master_ , please make love to me until I forget my own name, until I shake and whimper and beg for release. Right now, actually, would be wonderful, as I believe I have two hours to kill. Was that more what you had in mind?”

“My dear Doctor,” the Master says, pushing the frock coat off the Doctor’s shoulders and pulling him closer. “Sometimes I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
